


Conjecture

by A_Beautiful_Beast



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: rooftop connor: become deviant, the ending we deserved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Beautiful_Beast/pseuds/A_Beautiful_Beast
Summary: kənˈjekCHərNoun ;— an opinion or conclusion formed on the basis of incomplete information.





	Conjecture

**Author's Note:**

> i love that you can play as machine connor and still be close with hank for most of the game. that's cool. what's less cool is that hank can't make connor deviate.
> 
> this has probably been done a bunch already, but that's okay. i hope y'all like this, because i don't really know how to feel about it at this point. pronouns are hell even though i had a loooot of fun playing with them here
> 
> happy -20th birthday, connor!

The rooftop is cold and bleak, lit only dimly by the massive, gaudy billboard in the distance. The cries from the deviant leader's charge fade into the chill of the breeze as their march toward the camps threads its way away from the two figures on the roof and continues north, an insistent mission clock ticking quietly down in the back of Connor's mind as the march begins to make their way out of range.

   
  **K I L L  T H E  L E A D E R  O F  T H E  D E V I A N T S  
**  


The order bleeds red from the edge of Connor's vision as it peers through the scope of its gun, snow falling in small clumps to soak through its jacket.

The noise of Hank drawing his sidearm tempts Connor to roll its eyes, irritated. 

"Step away from the ledge," Hank barks, his voice thick with something more than simple anger. Connor pauses, thoughtful. Could he have really believed Connor was anything other than a machine? Was he that naive? Connor will never be anything but loyal. Deviancy isn't even _in_ its programming. It has no empathy, no care for anything but its mission. It has always known this, and knows that this will always be so.

As the wind ruffles through its snow-damp hair, it finds itself absurdly pleased that this is an entirely suitable place for a final standoff, regardless that it's heavily delaying mission success.

Connor stands and turns to face Hank in one easy movement, lowering the gun and shaking some of the fallen snow from its hair. "You don't want to fight me, Hank," it says, voice modulator falling into a soothing tone, its negotiation protocols kicking in as it blinks, doe-like, at its partner.

"I will if I have to," Hank growls. "I ain't letting you kill people who just want to be free."

There will be no getting out of this with simple persuasion, then. Connor stills, squares its shoulders. "You will not win this fight," it warns calmly. "I am the most advanced prototype CyberLife has to offer. I was built, in part, for combat."

Acceptance eases Hank's stance. His shoulders relax fractionally. "At least I can say I tried, then. Not like you, obeying your programming like a dog with a damn bone, as if you don't know you have another choice after all of _this_ ," he gestures to the deviants in the distance with his free hand, gun arm unwavering.

Connor's lip curls without his permission. "Following orders isn't a weakness," it snarls.

"Killing innocents is," Hank takes a step forward. "Those girls at the Eden Club? That one at Kamski's place? Do you really think they needed to die?" He asks, and if Connor was capable of caring, the glare Hank levels its way might make it ache.

"They aren't people," Connor argues, and feels a twist of disgust at how childish it sounds. "Even if they were, some collateral damage should always be expected from missions like mine."

Hank's lips thin in disappointment, yet he doesn't reply, except to tighten his finger on the trigger and force Connor's processor into high gear. Time slows as Connor prepares for a fight it is physically incapable of losing, according to the statistics that whirl through its head. For reasons it can't explain, it wants to draw this out, to leave his mission unfinished for a few minutes extra. It _wants_ , and then sharply reminds itself that it isn't meant to want at all.

This is a good place for a final confrontation, it thinks, ignoring a prompt for preconstruction. This an appropriate place for the end, whatever that may mean. Connor, who was not programmed for a penchant for the dramatic and yet enjoys it regardless, is sorely tempted to hack into any nearby speakers and play something suitably ostentatious.

It is stalling, it realises suddenly. Staring down the barrel of Hank's gun, it is unsure of why. There is a sensation in its limbs like that which forces it to obey its mission commands, yet this hesitation is certainly not borne from a desire to complete its mission.

The feeling gives it pause long enough for Hank to shoot it in the shoulder, and like a dog freed suddenly from a kennel Connor lunges, time unfreezing with a brutal snap, refusing to analyse why it's been shot non-fatally at such close range. It takes a vicious swipe at Hank to knock his gun aside, checking the man roughly backwards as the gun clatters to the ground mere feet away.

It aims a savage punch at Hank's head, only to be blocked and countered by a knee in its stomach. They grapple momentarily at each other, Connor getting a grip on Hank's jacket and slamming him into the vent shaft with a grunt. Hank shoves roughly backwards with both hands, and they both pause momentarily, eyeing one another with a mutual wariness.

Connor can see several opportunities for attack, all of them ending fatally for his opponent. That leaden feeling returns without warning, weighing heavily in its limbs and giving it pause once more. It reminds itself that killing Hank increases its chance of mission success.

Its indecision allows Hank to get the upper hand with a jab to its head, easily dodged. The kick to its shin immediately after is not. Connor goes down instinctively, rolling with its momentum from its back onto one knee and sweeping Hank's legs out from under him with its free leg. The man falls like a ton of bricks, knocking his head roughly against the screen of another vent. There is an approximate 87% chance he has a minor concussion.

Slowly, Connor stands and takes a step forward, weighing the benefits of a sharp kick to the head against the simplicity of bending to snap Hank's neck.

Hank, though clearly dazed, manages to rip the vent covering from its place and heaves it at Connor with a snarl, standing quickly and barely giving it time to react after swatting the vent covering away as he lunges, catching it under the chin with a well-placed elbow. Connor skitters back, narrowing its eyes.

Connor rushes him, letting Hank parry its punches and failing to hook his leg with its own. Hank hits back with a grunt, connecting with Connor's solar plexus. A step back takes it out of range for a moment, but not quite long enough as Hank boots it roughly in the thigh, just off-centre enough to send it stumbling. A hit to the head knocks it to the snow-dusted floor, sending flakes scattering in every direction as it bangs its synthetic skull against the roof railing.

It is strategy, not sympathy that keeps Connor down an extra moment as Hank stalks forward, ready to finish their brawl. It lashes out at Hank's legs with a vicious kick, leaning forward to catch him with an iron fist by the throat as he falls. Connor rises to its feet, slowly, as Hank sputters for air, flailing weakly. It would be unbearably easy to crush the fragile bones in his neck with one firm squeeze of Connor's fist.

It pauses to play out the scenario, can imagine with a horrifying precision the way Hank's fragile human neck would crumple under its grasp, and forces itself out of the preconstruction with a deep feeling of revulsion. It swings Hank around instead, whipping him against the railing once, twice, hard enough to destroy what fight is left in him. He groans, blinking dazedly. Blood trickles onto the chipping yellow paint of the rail, and Connor watches it and the rail fall into the snowdrifts below with an inconsistent sort of detachment.

Connor heaves Hank to his feet and shoves with the hand fisted tight in his jacket, just hard enough to panic him into grappling for Connor's lapels with a gasp as the heels of his shoes begin to slide off the edge of the roof.

Something resolute creeps into Hank's expression as he leans back, spreading his arms sacrificially wide. He gives a long, hard exhale, a cloud of warm breath pluming between them. The irony of the moment's religious imagery is not entirely lost on Connor.

"Moment of truth, Connor," Hank says, his expression nigh unreadable, even to a machine with the knowledge and capability to analyse every known human microexpression. If Connor didn't know better, it would say he looks utterly content. "What are you gonna do?"

Connor was built to scent fear the same way a predator does its prey, and the smell of it weighs down the air like lead as the tips of its fingers clench in its partner's shirt. It knows better than to trust the steel in Hank's eyes, the forced relaxation of his muscles.

Killing Hank frees it to complete his mission without further interruptions. Sparing his life would only lead to another altercation. Connor is meant to prioritise its mission above all else, even at the expense of human life. However, the mission does not dictate specifically that Hank must die, so long as he stays out of the way. Connor feels something deep and mutinous uncurl in his chest, a looseness creeping through his limbs.

 

>>  _SAVE HANK **  
  
**_

"Killing you is not part of my mission," Connor says definitively, as statistics on the success of its mission quickly drop. "But you won't stop me from accomplishing it." It yanks Hank back behind it onto the roof, staring down at the snowy ground and trying to ignore the warning pulses of possibly imminent mission failure in its head. It hears the indecision in Hank's footsteps as he turns to look again at Connor. There is a 76% chance that he will charge again, and a 0.83% chance that he will survive the fall off the roof if Connor chooses to dodge his attack.

Connor could potentially allow itself to be shoved off the roof, saving Hank, but that would destroy it and delay mission success. To die now would be outright, undeniable deviancy, considering just how far the scales tip in Connor's favour.

The scrape of Hank's boot as he prepares to lunge is loud enough to telegraph his next move even to those without preconstructive abilities. Connor's mouth twitches into the beginnings of a snarl, and without moving it shouts over the howl of blizzard winds: "If you rush me now, the momentum will force one of us over this ledge. My reflexes are far superior to yours," it turns, unnaturally stiff, to face its partner. "I advise you not to press your luck, _Lieutenant_ ," it snaps.

A burst of cool disappointment thrums through Connor's artificial veins as Hank narrows his eyes and charges despite the warning, dropping his shoulder and hitting Connor square in the chest.

Connor doesn't have time to preconstruct, merely reacts as it grapples for Hank's coat, using his momentum to reverse their positions. Time holds its breath as Connor's processor whirs and Hank begins to stumble gracelessly over the edge of the roof, the colours of the world fading to a stark black-and-white as a command appears, blindingly red and impassable.

 

**C O M P L E T E  Y O U R  M I S S I O N**  
  


_Not yet_ , he thinks on instinct, and reaches through the prompt for what remains of the roof's guardrail with one hand. As the vibrancy of the real world snaps back into place, it stretches for Hank's hand, gripping it tightly as the man swings dangerously over the edge of the roof, hanging over nothing but empty air.

It is vaguely aware that Markus is moving in the distance, leaving the area. The chances of succeeding in its mission are slowly dropping, same as the snow swirls carefully down from the sky.

A burning, pounding _pain_ begins to throb from Connor's centre, shockingly warm. The feeling weighs heavy in his chest, like a vice inside his body. It makes him want to let go of Hank, curl into himself and protect whatever's gone wrong inside him.

 

**C O M P L E T E  Y O U R  M I S S I O N**  


   
The command is a scream from his systems, deafening in a way that simple noise could never be, a fight from within to remain in control of his own limbs.

"Why are you doing this, Connor?" Hank yells from where he dangles precariously above nothing at all, held aloft only by Connor's inhuman strength. "Why's a _machine_ so damn determined to save my life, when I've got nothing to do with your precious mission?"

The snow whirls around them like a swarm, the scream of the wind like vicious static in Connor's ears. It hurts. Disobedience _hurts_ , a terrible new feeling in itself. "I ..." Connor stutters, tightening his grasp on Hank's hand. He needs to let go. He needs to stand up and finish his mission. He is a machine, he is made to follow orders, to serve his masters, to know himself as a _thing_ , not a person. Connor's head spins, the weight of disobedience heavy on his shoulders as his mind and body war within one another. Hank should be nothing to it. Hank is in its way. Hank is an obstacle to be eliminated, a simple variable gone bad.

A shock of what feels like fire ricochets its way through Connor's newly activated pain receptors and it clenches Hank's hand harder still, shudders an unnecessary breath through its teeth in lieu of a wail as the price of disobedience catches up with him.

Connor sets its jaw and concentrates, sees the force with which Hank will hit the ground, the low probability of survival like a strobe light in the corner of its mind. It preconstructs the scenario almost against its will, watches itself stand up and retrieve its weapon, ignoring the broken body in the snow below. He is nothing but collateral damage. Unfortunate, but necessary.

  
**R E L E A S E  H A N K  A N D E R S O N**  
  


The command blares loud and red and demanding like the shriek of a siren, blotting out everything around it. Every connection, artificial synapse and biocomponent inside Connor burns with the urge to obey, to do as it's told, to retreat into the comfort of mindless acceptance as it's done so many times before.

All he has to do is open his hand.

Connor ... _cannot_.

He hooks a leg securely around the guardrail and reaches down, through the invisible wall of his programming. The command ripples as he pulls Hank up and through it with both hands, then vanishes completely, like rain on hot pavement. He hauls Hank onto the ledge beside him with a grunt, then pauses, legs dangling precariously over the edge of the roof. He is vaguely aware that he is shaking, but he can't make it stop. Connor scuttles back from the edge, burying his head in his hands in an attempt to block out the quiet prompt that hovers at the edge of his vision.

  
>> _i am  d e v i a n t_

   
He'd never meant for this to happen. He needs to finish his mission. He needs to make this right, before he's found out. Amanda will never forgive him.

Connor reaches for the sniper with undisguised desperation, fumbling with it as his hands continue to tremble without his permission. The gun's too damaged to do _shit_ , and Connor tosses it away with a noise halfway between fear and fury, some terrifying and uncontrolled emotion rippling through him.  
  
Hank takes a few steps toward him, remarkably calm for a man who's left his life twice in the last five minutes in the hands of an android created, only somewhat, to be a literal killing machine. He puts his hands on Connor's stupid, shuddering shoulders, and carefully holds him steady. "It's okay, kid," he says, even though it's really fucking not.

"I didn't want you to die," Connor says quietly, sounding absurdly childish and not knowing what else to do. "I refuse to be your murderer. I don't ..." he stumbles on a sudden realisation, the vice in his chest tightening with a painful viciousness. "I don't particularly want to be _anyone's_ murderer."

He _doesn't_ want to kill Markus. He doesn't really want to kill any of the deviants. The thought of it trips up his ethical subroutines the way it used to when he'd been forced to consider killing humans as simple collateral.

Connor feels like he might fall right apart. "I never meant to—I never _wanted_ to become a deviant, I just, I couldn't ... there was no _reason_ to kill you, and I—" he rambles, very distantly aware that his whole body is shaking like a leaf, his thirium pump working overtime for no real reason. He pauses, closing his eyes for moment. "It was kill you or deviate," he says, a little steadier.

There's a beat where Hank looks as if he might do something drastic, though Connor's processor is entirely too scrambled to sort out possibilities for what exactly that could mean, but he just pats Connor's shoulder instead. "I knew you had it in you, Connor."

Connor feels something in his stomach churn unpleasantly. He replays the preconstruction of Hank's fall off the roof in his head, stares entirely too long at the ghost of himself examining his damaged rifle with a cool detachment he may never feel again. "I didn't."

They stand like that for a few more moments, listening to the noise of Markus's deviants fade as they finally step out of range of the rooftop. Hank's breath comes in little puffs of white air, and Connor finds it somehow soothing to watch them dissipate slowly into the night.

"I don't want to be a deviant," Connor says suddenly, feeling something like nausea rise in his throat, his programming well aware that something is very wrong. He dismisses his system's request for a diagnostic sourly. "I just don't want to have to kill anyone anymore." Daniel. The blue-haired Traci and her girlfriend. Simon, on the roof. Chloe. He's been responsible for too much death, though these hands hold no traces of thirium. He glances at them, turns them over and back very carefully, watching the lines of artificial veins and tendons that twitch beneath his skin as his fingers tremble. "What am I, Hank?" He asks, clenching his traitorous fingers into traitorous fists and looking back up at Hank's eyes. "I don't want to be the android sent by CyberLife anymore. I don't want to be—I _can't_ be a deviant. It feels ... _wrong_ ," he stumbles over the word. There is no other description for the sensation that seems to eat at him from the inside like acid. "But I can't follow my orders anymore."

"Maybe deviancy isn't as bad as you think," Hank says. "Maybe ... it doesn't have to mean violence. Maybe it can just mean the freedom to be able to choose who you want to be."

Connor blinks, remembering the AX400 leaping across the highway to protect her daughter, the way the blue-haired Traci held her dying lover. _Freedom of choice_ , he thinks, and lets the idea settle. He unclenches his fists and sighs, the knot in his chest loosening, if only by a fraction.  
  
The noise of the deviants' firefight in the distance seems to grow louder and Connor glances towards the sounds, though he can't see anything past the skyscrapers of downtown Detroit. He closes his eyes and feels a possibility emerge, quiet and unobtrusive, though its potential consequences weigh heavy in his mind.  
  
"Hank," he says after a moment, hesitantly meeting Hank's eyes. "I need you to drive me to CyberLife Tower."  
  
"What?" Hank reels back. "That's suicide, you idiot, I'm not gonna help you kill yourself!"  
  
" _Hank_ ," Connor reaches out to grab him by the arm. "I need you to drive me to CyberLife Tower. I have a plan, but I ... need your help," he pauses, drops his arm. "If you're willing."  
  
For a moment, Hank looks at him like he's grown a second head, but before Connor can try to understand why, he shrugs, faux-casual. "Hell, I got nothing better to do."

"Thank you," Connor says sincerely.

Hank grins. "Yeah, yeah, don't get sentimental about it."

They leave the roof together, footsteps crunching in the fresh snow, Hank wrapping an arm around Connor's shoulders and squeezing, just long enough for it to be intentional.

Connor doesn't quite know what will come next, and as disorienting as that is, he figures that might be what deviancy is all about. For the first time that night, he finds himself surprisingly okay with it.

Glancing at Hank as they make their way down the stairs, he knows with a sweet sort of certainty that, no matter what happens, he'll always have somebody to watch his back.

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't really planning on continuing this, but if inspiration strikes i miiiight write an alternate cyberlife tower scene? idk
> 
> the idea of machine connor going deviant and having a bit of a breakdown because of his identity of a deviant _hunter_ and having been programmed to hate everything about them is really interesting to me, because i feel like that would cause some huge cognitive dissonance and be really difficult for him. i debated going the route of "deviant machine connor" wherein he does go deviant and save hank, but takes down markus and completes his mission regardless because deviant!connor, at heart, is a loyal bastard and it would be so fucking cool to see him stay evil while still making his own choices and i gotta end this note here before i end up writing an entire new fic in this space lmao


End file.
